by Rosanna Ley
‘Better not dare,’ she advised. ‘Your grandmother – she is on the warpath. Your father must do this and then he must do that. He must not stop for a second – oh, no – because if he does, the entire hotel will collapse, just like a house of sand. Whoosh!’ She made a wild gesture with her hands.
Isabella worried about the knife. Her mother could be as cool as a cucumber most of the time. But when she got angry, she got very angry, and only Isabella’s father could calm her. ‘I’ll find him.’ She slipped out through the back door.
Outside, Ferdinand Bauer was – rather bizarrely – standing staring up at the back of the hotel.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ The words were out of her mouth before she could catch them.
‘Oh, hello.’ He seemed nonplussed. ‘Just, er, looking up at the building.’
‘Looking at the building?’ Honestly?
He shrugged. ‘Wondering about the old convent – what it was like back then, you know.’
Ah. He was an architect, of course. Perhaps they often went around looking up at old buildings – wondering.
‘This part of the grounds is meant to be private, Signore,’ She put on her best reproving voice. Although it was hard to be stern when he was grinning at her like that. And those eyes . . .
‘I do apologise.’ He held up both hands. ‘I had no idea.’
‘It’s OK.’
Her mother’s angry voice rang through the kitchen and leapt through the open window beside them.
Ferdinand blinked. Isabella remembered that there was a crisis in the making.
‘Please excuse me.’ She took a step away.
‘Is everything all right? Is there anything I can—?’
‘Yes. No. Everything is fine.’ Though the near hysteria evident in her mother’s tone seemed to render this statement ridiculous. ‘I have to find my father.’ She took another step away.
‘But can I just ask you . . .’
‘Yes?’ She hesitated.
‘Your friend? The nun who is not a nun? Giovanna, wasn’t it? Have you spoken to her yet?’
He didn’t seem to appreciate the urgency of the situation. ‘She isn’t a nun, I told you.’ Isabella tried not to let her frustration show in her voice. No point in him thinking the entire family were crazy-mad-Italian. ‘And yes, but . . .’ She spotted her father in the distance. ‘I’ll tell you later, Signore.’ She waved. ‘Papà!’
‘Ferdinand,’ he said softly.
She looked back at him for a moment. His eyes were the exact same shade as the sky. ‘Ferdinand,’ she repeated.
CHAPTER 7
Chiara
Chiara eased herself on to the bar stool beside Dante. Her body felt not quite hers, it was rather too aware of him; and she could smell his aftershave, oddly reminiscent of cypress trees and the ocean; that was new. The old Dante Rossi had never bothered; he had smelt only of honest sweat and toil and bitter-green olives.
She had promised to meet him for an aperitivo, that was all. ‘To catch up on the last forty years,’ he had said with a wry smile.
How could she refuse when she wanted to know so badly? And where was the harm? Dante had in fact invited Alonzo too, though she could tell he was relieved when she told him Alonzo was away on business. ‘Just you and me then, Chiara,’ he’d said.
‘Just you and me,’ she’d agreed. And she’d pretended to herself that the slow thrill of excitement that rippled down her spine at the prospect wasn’t really there at all.
She’d taken her time in deciding what to wear tonight – because what could possibly suit the occasion? Her red lacy dress was surely too frivolous. But the white linen might be too casual? High heels? Espadrilles? Jewellery? There was simply too much choice. Why did it seem so ridiculously important to get it right?
‘Good evening, Chiara.’ Dante had got to his feet and greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks and a look of appreciation that made her glad she had made the effort.
The white linen hit the right note, she’d decided, but with a splash of bling to make it special. She always took care with her make-up. At fifty-nine she still prided herself on her maternal family’s cheekbones and the fact that she hadn’t put on too much weight – despite Marcello’s and now Elene’s excellent pasta – but these days, less had generally become more and a touch of blusher and mascara went a long way. Tonight though, she had added a rich slash of lipstick in a shade of vermilion she hadn’t used for almost a decade.
‘Bella . . . You look beautiful,’ he told her. ‘What can I get you to drink?’
‘A glass of prosecco would be lovely.’ She smiled at Emanuele, who looked after the bar most evenings and sometimes doubled up as a waiter when they were pushed. ‘Very cold, with some ice and perhaps a dash of Aperol, no soda.’ Aperol spritzes were becoming all the rage, and here at The Lemon Tree they were getting through more bottles of Aperol and prosecco than ever before.
Dante ordered a beer, and when the drinks were served, they raised their glasses in a toast. ‘So where do we start?’ he asked.
‘From when you left the olive grove here at The Lemon Tree Hotel and headed for England without a word?’ Chiara suggested dryly. He looked pretty good himself, she had to say. It didn’t always follow that attractive young men became good-looking and distinguished in late middle-age, but Dante had. There was a different sort of confidence about him now – the confidence that came, she suspected, from having created a successful business and perhaps from having learned a lot along the way. The silver in his grey hair contrasted with dark brown eyes that looked so much wiser than before. And the lines on his face were full of character and suggested that he had lived a lot – and laughed a lot too.
‘Va bene. OK.’ He took a long draught of his beer. ‘So, I travelled around England for a while . . .’
‘Why England?’ She wanted to know everything.
Those eyes twinkled. ‘Why not? My grandmother – she always had a bit of thing for the place. Nonna adored the Queen.’
Chiara giggled. ‘Did she ever go there?’
‘Good God, of course not. She never left the village. But that woman could dream.’
Chiara saw the light still in his eyes that she’d been drawn to when they first met. It had barely dimmed. Nothing wrong with dreaming, she thought, as long as you didn’t make the mistake of mixing it up with reality. As for Chiara, she was as untravelled as Dante’s old grandmother had been, though it didn’t seem that way, with all the international guests who stayed in the hotel. ‘We have more English tourists here than before,’ she told Dante, ‘but many more Americans, Australians . . .’
‘And rich Italians,’ he guessed.
‘Sì. Certainly, many rich Italians.’ Dante would be able to see for himself how The Lemon Tree Hotel had changed. But she hoped that they had kept its heart intact. Chiara sipped her prosecco. It was deliciously icy with a good fizz, and Emanuele had added a slice of orange and a sprig of mint for good measure. She gave him a nod and smile of approval.
‘I wasn’t long in London,’ Dante continued. ‘It was great to see, but too busy for me. After that I went to West Sussex. It’s in the south of England.’
‘I know.’ She eyed him over the rim of her glass. She didn’t add that she had made it her business to find out much more about England since that visit to his mother in Corniglia. Their love affair might have been short, but it had been oh-so-sweet, and Dante had stayed in her heart for so long that sometimes she wondered if it had really been destiny after all.
‘I made for the coast, just looking around, you know?’
‘Sì.’ She could imagine. He would be feeling a little lost, alone in a strange country. It would be exciting – but he might also be wondering what he was doing there at all.
‘I found building work in a place called Worthing. There were other Italians there.’ He took a swig of his beer. ‘It was cold and it was rainy, but . . .’
Chiara watched him as he was drawn back into the pas
t, into his memories. This was what she had wanted from tonight – to hear how it had been. And this was what she had given up, she realised. The chance for adventure. The chance to be with this man as part of his life. ‘Building work?’ She wondered how he had gone from that to gelato.
He nodded. ‘To start with. I was always a labourer, was I not?’
He certainly was. Chiara remembered the tautness of his muscled brown body, the glow of sweat as he worked on the olive harvest. She took another sip of her prosecco and tried to banish the image from her mind.
‘One of the Italians had started up his own ice-cream parlour on the seafront. That first summer, he offered me a job there. He reckoned there was good money to be made from Italian gelato.’
‘I’m sure.’ Naturally, Italian gelato would be an improvement on English ice cream, just as Italian coffee must have shown them what coffee should be all about.
‘So, Mario, he taught me the craft. He was happy to; he took me under his wing.’
Chiara was pleased to hear that. She hated the thought of Dante being sad and friendless. Italians were good at sticking together. There was no one like an Italian for welcoming someone into their family with open arms. ‘Tell me how you make the gelato,’ she suggested. She just wanted to hear his voice – it was as comforting as a lullaby.
‘It is a delicate mix.’ Dante began to gesticulate as he explained the procedure. ‘We use more milk than cream, you know, so it is much healthier and the ice cream is churned at a slower rate incorporating less air, which leaves it denser, richer to the taste.’ He smacked his lips.
She smiled at his enthusiasm. ‘So, you stayed in Worthing?’
‘For a while.’ He shrugged. ‘But there was only enough work for me in the summer. And I was still restless, you know?’ His dark eyes searched hers.
‘I know,’ she murmured. But don’t go there . . .
‘Mario’s sister told me about Dorset. They had more relatives over there. She said I could go and stay with them, take a look around, think about what I wanted to do next.’
Chiara sipped her drink. The ice had melted, and although she had not intended to, she was drinking faster than usual. ‘And that’s what you did?’
‘Yes.’ He had finished his beer, so he gestured to Emanuele and ordered more drinks for them both.
‘With some olives per favore,’ Chiara said to their barman. ‘And some nuts perhaps.’ She should be careful; drinking on an empty stomach might not be such a good idea.
Emanuele served them with fresh drinks and a platter of nuts, olives, and antipasti.
‘And what did you find in Dorset?’ Chiara asked Dante.
‘Somewhere I could live,’ he said simply. ‘It’s rather beautiful, Chiara, though it’s not the Cinque Terre, admittedly.’
She bowed her head in acknowledgement. Most of their guests told her that this part of Italy was one of the most stunning landscapes in the world, so, as untravelled as she was, she guessed it to be true.
‘I got a job in a coffee kiosk in a little seaside town,’ he told her. ‘The guy who owned the place sold ice cream.’ He pulled a face. ‘But not good ice cream.’
‘So you showed him how it is done?’ Chiara laughed. So far, they were avoiding difficult subjects, so far there were no tricky emotions to shy away from. And it was easy, this talk between them, there was none of the awkwardness she’d feared. Already she could almost feel herself slipping into the old banter they’d shared.
He chuckled. ‘I did.’
‘And it was a success?’ she guessed.
He looked a little pleased with himself now. And why not? ‘Two years later I bought the kiosk,’ he told her. ‘Now, I run my own gelateria and supply my gelato to other cafés and restaurants in the area.’
‘That’s very impressive.’ He’d always had ambition. She remembered what he had said about going to work in a car factory in Milan; he would probably have been equally successful there.
‘Thank you. It’s hard work, but worth it.’
‘But why didn’t you go to Milan?’ Chiara took a sip of her prosecco. She had to ask this.
‘It wasn’t far enough away.’ His dark eyes were brooding.
Chiara thought she knew what he was thinking. She must change the subject and fast. ‘But, however is your gelateria managing without you?’ she teased. When what she really wanted to ask was: If I was really that important to you then why did you never come back before?
He laughed out loud now in that sudden and infectious way she remembered. ‘I didn’t trust anyone to do my job for years,’ he admitted. ‘When you’ve built up something from nothing . . .’
‘Sì.’ She knew that better than anyone. And there was even more pressure when it was your parents who had built it up from nothing.
‘Is that how it has been for you, Chiara?’ His eyes were serious again now.
‘Every day,’ she admitted.
‘But you have achieved so much. Just look at this place.’
They both looked around the cloisters at the vaulted ceiling that was pretty much the original from its convent days, at the ornate brickwork behind the bar that echoed it, the delicate sheen of the marble surfaces and the carefully chosen décor in shades of amber and earth-green. As always, Chiara felt a quiet sense of satisfaction. Outside, in the central courtyard, the lamps were lit and glowed soft and golden in the growing dusk.
‘Grazie mille, Dante,’ she murmured. ‘Thank you so much. I am proud of it, yes.’
‘And the charming signorina at the reception desk?’ He arched an enquiring eyebrow.
‘My granddaughter Isabella.’
‘I saw the resemblance.’ He nodded.
‘And yes, she is a treasure.’ A thought occurred to her. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought it before. ‘Do you have children, Dante?’ For he was here now, but he couldn’t be alone.
‘Sadly, no.’ He seemed about to say more, but stopped himself.
‘But are you married?’ Her voice shook a little as she asked this question. Given her own marital position, it was ridiculous to mind, but the very thought of Dante . . .
‘No.’ He put a palm over her hand, which was resting on the rail of the bar. ‘I should perhaps not say this, but . . .’
‘But?’ His hand on hers was both warm and comforting. And Chiara wanted to know more than anything what it was that he should not say.
‘Only that I never met a woman I wanted to marry,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It is entirely inappropriate to say this to you now, but I never met a woman who could hold a candle to you.’
Mamma mia! Chiara was suddenly finding it hard to breathe. Italian men were renowned for their charm, their unashamed skill in the art of flirtation, but Dante was not like that, he never had been. Dante was sincere. She struggled for composure, looked up to see Elene coming into the bar to speak to Emanuele. She spotted Chiara immediately and shot a look of curiosity Dante’s way.
Chiara saw the exact moment that her daughter noticed Dante’s hand on hers. She took it away, pronto, but it had all happened so fast, and it was too late.
Dante followed the direction of her gaze. ‘Your daughter?’
‘Elene, yes.’ She tried to sound unconcerned, but a knot of anxiety had already formed in her chest. She should have met him in a bar in Vernazza – but surely that would have suggested some sort of clandestine element to this innocent meeting. And it wasn’t like that. It really wasn’t like that.
‘I apologise.’
‘There’s nothing to apologise for.’
He raised a hand in disagreement. ‘I forgot for a moment – that you have a family here, a life, a past, a present.’ He hesitated. ‘And a future too.’
‘It’s fine, really.’ She would tell Elene about Dante later. At least she would tell her that he had turned up here, an old friend, an affectionate old friend, and that this was all.
Her daughter had not been in the best of moods earlier – and Chiara realised that
this was partly her fault. She shouldn’t have criticised the menu, she shouldn’t have told Elene she was looking for Silvio. But, really . . . Elene blew so hot and cold, it was sometimes hard to keep up.
Chiara tried to grasp back the initiative of the conversation, but the mood had changed and she couldn’t quite let the subject go. ‘You must have had girlfriends,’ she said. ‘Lovers.’ Dante was not a man who would not have had women.
‘Yes, more than one over the years.’ He picked up his beer. ‘But that, cara, is a different story.’
And one that she didn’t much want to hear, thought Chiara, though the endearment gave her a little glow. ‘Perhaps we should take our drinks outside?’ The Cloisters Bar was beginning to feel a little claustrophobic somehow.
‘Good idea.’ He got to his feet and took her arm. ‘It will be more private there.’
Chiara almost turned right back again. That wasn’t what she had meant. But, no. He was right – she didn’t want their conversation to be heard by the staff; she did require privacy for this strange encounter with the past.
In the courtyard, tables and chairs were set out in random groupings over the grey stone flags. Chiara led the way over to the bench under the lemon tree beside the old well. As Isabella had pointed out at Giovanna’s birthday dinner, not only had the lemon tree given their hotel its name, but it produced gloriously scented fruit almost all year round, which Elene used to make her lemon cake, her lemon chicken, and that delicious limoncino, the Ligurian version of limoncello – and it was definitely no coincidence that the parasols in the courtyard were the exact same colour; Chiara had sourced the fabric herself.
They settled themselves on the bench, and Chiara breathed in the sharp citrus fragrance that always seemed stronger at night-time as the lemons glowed in the golden light from the lamps in the courtyard.
‘So you married Alonzo,’ Dante continued.
They now had a good view of the pinkish-grey stone of the old convent building, still crumbling in places despite its restoration, the blood-red bougainvillea planted in huge clay pots so that they clambered up the narrow brick arches, and the clumps of agapanthus surrounding the benches and the little stone fountain. It was a warm night, and the breeze was like silk on her skin. Chiara had always loved this courtyard, but it was most special at night when the lamps were lit and the stars glinted in an indigo sky. Tonight, the waxing moon was only a narrow crescent, but Chiara could see as clearly as she ever could.
